Less than infinite patience.

I have to say this.  Life has been little else but pure joy since last Friday, when Charlotte was born.  Life would be nothing but pure joy if dingdongs and poopyheads would do a few things for me/us:

1) Keep their issues to themselves.

2) Keep their issues to themselves.

3) Stop demanding things of either of us.  Unless you live under a rock, you know that new parents don’t sleep, don’t have any time and are more than a little consumed with taking care of and admiring their new child.

4) Respect our decisions.

I’ve found that a lot of the same people who make a show of sympathy, empathy and understanding also get pissed when there is no patience and no “consideration” left for them.  My immediate family is not, thankfully, pulling any of this crap.  The opposite, actually.  But my immediate family is pretty small, and the slew of other people that demand attention for themselves in favor of my newborn child is a larger list of people.  Passive-aggressiveness over perceived slights at the lack of returned phone calls, meet-ups, emails, etc.?  Seriously?

Fortunately, we have — or, at least, I have — resolved to just not care about other people’s feelings right now.  Easier said than done, I know.  But on nights like tonight, where the poop’s flying, and Charlotte’s not sleeping, and I find myself with less patience left for her because of some fartpooper who’s being passive-aggressive because our priority has been our child, well, that makes it easier.

I don’t think I’m going to make it to the end of the month without snapping at someone for being a jerk.

Softening up on angry parenting before Baby gets here.

Okay, so the whole, “You smoke; you can’t hold Baby,” thing might be over.  I think.  Not sure.  But it’s up to Mama.  It’s not up to anyone who feels entitled to hold someone else’s kid.  My brother, for instance, smokes outside only and not often.  Unless he just came in from smoking, he gets to hold Baby, according to Mama and I.  If you smoke in your house or car (especially both), Mama’s foot is still down.  Feel free to try to fight with her if you are crazy enough to try.  I’m not.

I’m still reserving some patience for people who suggest meat for an infant.  Because, well, if someone thinks a six-month old should eat a steak, well, that’s so stupid that I’m not going to lose my patience.  Same with suggesting that meat-based diets are miraculously healthier than non-meat-based diets.  Sure, I know some meat-eaters (many, in fact) who eat healthier than some vegetarians I’ve known.  But that had more to do with dumbass vegetarians than meat being inherently good for you.

I shouldn’t say it, but people have been quiet about the no car thing.  Good.  Now that I’ve said it, this silence is going to stop, and we’ll have to start citing statistics to show that putting a kid into a car is what’s dangerous, if you wanna, you know, get scientific and factual about it and all.

We also picked a bouncy chair in very pink pink pink.  But, in our defense, the others were ugly.  The rest of her room could pretty much work for any human being, regardless of gender.  It’s that awesome.

But, maybe we’re not softening up as much as I think.  I think resoluteness feels more natural now, and I don’t feel like we’re being stern unnecessarily.

Baby soon?

OB Apt: Mama’s 80% effaced and 2cm dilated. Blood pressure’s high, but it looks like Baby won’t be late, after all that bed rest!

Making room for Baby.


I’ve discovered, somewhat the hard way, that making room for a child requires much more than buying a crib and diapers.

You have to pull out your furniture and clean under there.   You have to pay attention to your air quality.  You have to put away choking hazards, plug up electric sockets, bolt things to walls and put away matches.  You have to get rid of as much as you can (if you’re a semi-nomadic apartment dweller), think hard about what you bring into your home and measure and have decent abstract thinking abilities regarding space, color and light.  You have to be able to use basic tools, a paintbrush, a vacuum cleaner and a caulk gun.  You have to be good at keeping up on dishes, laundry and shopping.

And you have to clear away ISSUES.  Your issues.  Your [immediate and extended] family’s issues.  Your friends’ and comrades’ issues.  “Society’s” issues.

I’ve probably already beaten this dead horse, but we (and especially I) are (am) cleaning out the belfries of our (my) own minds and hearts to make room for Baby there.  I’m always happy to listen to people’s problems and to help out by sharing a beer/coffee or just taking a walk.  I don’t mean to repeat my, “You have issues?  I have a kid.  I don’t have the time for you anymore.”  I think that’s been said enough to make me sound cold and also has been said more than I really actually mean it.

I’m referring now to the fact that we have to protect our child from screwed-up people.  Not violent people or something extreme like that.  Stubbornness, thoughtlessness, ressentiment, spite, etc.  I mean that we have to protect Baby from what other people’s issues cause.

It’s — relatively – easy to directly protect Baby from some of these issues, certainly.  Take a stubborn and spiteful family member or family friend.  It’s simple.  He or she doesn’t get to hang out with Baby.  It’s not Baby’s fault that an individual is an asshole.  It’s the asshole’s fault.  So, the asshole deserves to suffer for the asshole’s own issues (if someone has to suffer for them), if the alternative is that our Baby suffer.  Simple.  Or maybe I buy into existentialist notions of human freedom too deeply and blame people too much for issues that are the result of their societal milieu or their upbringing — or genuine mental illness.

But the problem is that these kinds of issues have an effect on us, as parents, as a married couple and as individuals.  It’s easy to keep Baby away from spiteful or selfish people, but this spite and selfishness gets brought into our home in the effects it has on Mommy and Daddy.  We might come home in a bad mood.  We might fight with each other.  We might teach Baby about rage or revenge without intending to.  If I am going to blame assholes for being assholes (and I do), I have to blame myself (and Mama) for how I (we) react to assholes.

And this is tricky.  Do I follow my revenge instinct?  Or do I attempt to emulate Jesus or the Buddha or another figure who would counsel peace and love?  Do I lie to Baby about assholes?  (“No, s/he is not a mean person.  S/he just had a bad family life and takes the misery it caused out on everyone in the world.  There are no mean or bad people.”)  I’d certainly like Baby to understand that there are, in fact, terrible people out there.  There are a couple of them on my own side of the family, for sure.  But I’d like her to have an optimism about people that I do not have and wish that I did.  Or is that realistic at all?

I feel like what we have to “make room” for is a balance between forgiveness and protection.  Just enough forgiveness to not hate someone, but protection enough to keep mean people and their issues away from Baby.  Or, since this is probably not possible all of the time, at least to minimize the effect other people’s assholery will have on us.  Or something.

Mama wrote her dissertation on love, and I on hate.  Maybe we’ll strike a balance by accident, almost naturally?

Baby’s room.


It’s officially the coolest room in our apartment.  I’m jealous!  I was joking last night that I wanted to sleep on the floor in there read all night.

We never bother to paint because we move a lot; so our walls are all off-white.  For Baby’s room, I used non-VOC paint to get the space a glossy shade of blue.  There is wonderful light (from soft flower and bug wall lamps, to a medium lamp to a big floor to the nuclear dawn of the ceiling light), a soft rug, cute curtains, soft, wooden furniture (including some that we intend to grow with her), a rocking chair, TOYS and — for now — two bikes!Also , to keep the dragon plant company, a money tree!

It was a task. It felt like my Augean stables, as I cleaned off a storage shelf, the huge closet, computer desk, two full bookshelves, bike parts and tools, pens (PENS!). This took me several weekends.

Then I painted with a brush, so that I wouldn’t have to make a mess. Before and after painting, I had fun with sandpaper, putty and DUST (which had to be vacuumed from everything, mopped up, etc., in case of lead paint, etc.).  This took a week of evenings, with a few mornings and one afternoon.

Then there was a big trip to Ikea, after some careful planning and measuring.  And, you know, putting everything together (which I really enjoy).

And, finally, decorating!  This was the fun part.  I had a nice beer, my headphones and went to town last night.  I think that was the last beer I’ll ever drink in there.

The crib is in our room, closer to me, since I’m a light sleeper.  After that, it will replace the bikes in Baby’s room.  Her window looks out onto trees and, when they don’t have their leaves, North Baltimore.  There are three doors: one to the hallway, one to the closet, one to the bathroom (both bedrooms have doors into the bathroom, which is pretty cool and part of the “charm” of this old place).  The floors are the original (creaky and scarred) hardwood floors.

It’s weird to think that, in a matter of weeks or even days, there will be a tiny baby there.

Also, in the mail today: my new camera and the Baby Bjorn!

More photos here on Flickr!

Using your wisdom?

Okay.  Now I know why my wife called me arrogant.

I think my father called me yesterday to ask about what to do about a situation.  My mother (Hi, Mom!) complimented my people-reading skills last weekend.  I am glad for all of this.  I shudder to think how many times (even recently) I’ve bugged the shit out of my parents, asking for advice, a perspective, an opinion.

My wife and I were talking this morning, and I said, “If people seek you out for practical advice in dealing with people, power-structures, their emotions, etc., does that make you a philosopher?  That is, if you seem to have wisdom that people want to use?”

I think I have excellent judgement.  But I think that I also seldom use it.  I don’t think that personal idiocy precludes being able to help other people.

Maybe I’m just, as I suspect, a good listener.  I think I’m entirely too young and too dumb for people to be coming to me expecting sage advice.  But listening is a good skill, especially with fatherhood on the very near horizon.

I forgot where I was going with this.  It’s raining again, and I need to get to work.

So much shopping.


When people comment that tiny children require mounds of stuff, they’re not fooling you. Grandma and Grandpa insisted on buying the crib and got them into the Escape before we could finish checking out with other stuff at Ikea. This is matched by the car-load of stuff we got for the shower, the car load on its way via online shopping and the car load from Target and Babies “R” Us. Wow.

Notes on how we’re raising our baby, in case you’re wondering.


Okay, so people frequently ask my wife and I questions about parenting, like we know what we’re doing yet.  For our benefit, I think I might type up some things we’ve agreed on.

We are raising Baby vegetarian. At least until she’s old enough to choose to eat meat herself, we’re not giving it to her and will flip out if anyone else does. We live perfectly well without eating meat, and our family will continue to do so as it grows. We are perfectly aware that being vegetarians requires extra thinking and effort. We’ve been vegetarians for almost 8 years. I’d also like to posit that, on the whole, vegetarians think more about what we eat than most (certainly not all) people do. As such, chances are that Baby will eat more healthily than most kids her age.

We are not buying a car.  In fact, Baby will not be in a car any more than is necessary. Why would a baby who doesn’t need anything that’s more than a ten minute walk from our apartment need to be in a car? Babies die in cars every single day.  Look at the fancy seats required for them.  If Baby needed to drive somewhere (and sometimes she probably will), that’s a different matter.  My parents never put us in a car except for weekend trips with Grandmom or to visit Grandmaw and Gramps in “the country.” We grew up walking to school, walking to the store, enjoying being able to play outside with kids who lived near us.  I liked that freedom and seeing the sights, and we want that for our child.  I don’t give people who drive their kids around shit for doing it, and I’d like the same respect. We arranged our lives so that we can be car-free. Certainly there are people who are not in a position to live without a car, and I don’t judge anyone for that.  I know it’s not always possible, not in the United States.  But it is possible for us, due to a lot of effort, a lot of sacrifice and — largely — a lot of luck (where we work, the MTA lines, etc.).

If you recently smoked a cigarette (and especially if you smoke in your house), you’re not holding Baby. This is Mama’s pet peeve, honestly.  She’s read a lot about “third-hand smoke” and feels very strongly about it.  You know who wins in a fight with a pregnant woman, especially one armed with good information?  Baby’s health means more to us than anyone’s feelings, even if that sounds cold and mean.  Instead of viewing this as mean on our parts, maybe people should stop smoking around babies, huh?  Yesterday, a lady lit up right in front of us, in front of the hospital.  Fortunately, almost all of the smokers I know are usually considerate — and recognise me as someone who’s not “against” smoking at all and who, instead, misses smoking with beer and coffee a great deal sometimes.  We shouldn’t have to explain to most of the people I know that we’re not judging them.  (If I had better self-control, I’d smoke socially myself, like I did for years.  But two cigarettes turns into a pack and into a habit for me.)

While we are not likely to return to being practising Catholics again, that does not mean that Baby will “have no religion.” I know people who’ve gone to church their whole lives who don’t seem to have “any” religion.  People who have protested this are being narrow-minded.

Baby’s not getting mega-pink, ballerinas and other “girl” stuff when she’s too young to prefer anything. Sure, she has “girl” cloths already. But she doesn’t have mega-you-know-it-when-you-see-it princess crap — yet. If she likes it, wants it and chooses it, she can be the biggest princess the world has ever seen.  I’ll paint her room the pinkest pink I can find and get her all the wands and dollhouses she wants.  But we’re not forcing anything on a child that’s not even born yet. We’ll be as thrilled if she wants to be a dancer as we will if she wants to play nothing but baseball for the rest of her life. It’s up to:

1) Her.
2) Her parents.
3) That is all.

Baby can have candy and sweets, in moderation. What good will teaching her that cookies are evil do? My brothers and I had treats and sweets in moderation, and I think we all have healthy relationships with candy, ice-cream and cookies. We enjoy them but don’t over-indulge.  I think my parents did an exemplary job on this front.  (My own belly is from over-indulging other things like pasta and french-fries.)

After all of this bitcing, I do feel badly, even though I know I shouldn’t, for hurting people’s feelings if when we have to. I suspect that the list of people whose feelings we are going to have to hurt might include my brothers, my parents, other family members, friends and co-workers — everyone!  I don’t relish hurting people who I care about. Really. Still, I don’t think it’s our job to be understanding. It’s our job to raise our child in a way that we feel is right — backed up with knowledge and good sense, of course. I mean, we didn’t decide that third-hand smoke is unhealthy, that cars are dangerous for babies, that children can be both vegetarian and healthy. And we’ve certainly learned more about it than people who dismiss such ideas immediately have done.

And, there’s that which really trumps it all: We are Baby’s parents.

I suspect that, when Baby’s actually here, I won’t feel as guilty about hurting people’s feelings. I know it’s part of parenthood. My mother comforted me with this truth when I was lamenting having to hurt the feelings of someone I love very much. I hope it gets easier. Putting our child first is simple and, I think, easy to do. But that doesn’t make hurting other people easy at all.

Asshole things people do when you’re pregnant, part ii.

Tell you what to do!

I don’t mean people who give  you genuine advice on things like how to give a baby a bath, how awesome Boppies are, where to get really cool toys or what kind of non-disposable diapers worked (or didn’t) for them.  Not only do I not consider this kind of advice to enter into the realm of assholedom; I think it’s helpful.  I appreciate it. I never heard of a Boppy before some friends of ours turned us on to them.  I didn’t know how to give a baby a bath at all (and am still fuzzy on it).  We were steered away from certain cloth diapers by folks who have tried them and told us what they liked and didn’t like about them.  We found many cool giraffe toys at Target.  I am seriously grateful for a lot of the good advice people have offered.  And, lest I be accused of being negative and hateful, it outnumbers the asshole bossiness because I’ve been avoiding the latter folks whenever I can.

This is not the same thing as forcing your opinions and your issues on someone.  A list of sweeping generalizations, categorical imperatives, issues and misguided/misinformed opinions people have shoved down my throat (and I mean shoved):

You can’t raise your baby vegetarian.
You have to get a car!  You need a car!  You’re being stupid!
You’re going to regret not using “normal” Huggies [which were the only thing I tried].
I hope your baby don’t turn out too dark.
You gotta baptize that baby.  It won’t know no religion if you don’t.
You worry too much.
You think too much.
You have to/can’t vaccinate that baby.
You ain’t putting that kid on no bike.  No way.
Babies need meat!
One of you’s gotta stay home with that baby.

(I’m not going to give myself a headache by pointing out how half of this stuff is not even, according to most research, true.)

First of all, this is completely ridiculous.  Parenthood seems, in a way, to be the ultimate exercise in authority.  You have responsibility for an entire life.  For better or for worse (groan), that’s power.  Telling someone what to do with their dependent child is, in a way, stupid.

Second, by telling someone what to do with their child, you are assuming that: A) You’re not an idiot; and, B) The people you’re bossing around are idiots.  This is  insulting.  And, considering that all parents make mistakes and that some of them make big ones (and that I can’t help but notice that bossier people tend to be, in my eyes, shitty parents coincidentally), this is delusional about  yourself, i.e., that you can do something better than the person you’re bossing around, simply by virtue of the fact that you’ve already had a kid or two (or four).  I’ve already had the pleasure of sitting through people telling me what to do and how to raise my unborn child, when these are people who have not only completely fucked their own kids up, but who are, to be frank, stupid.

Third, you’re being rude — at best.  You’re not respecting the differences between people’s values.  You eat meat; we do not.  You drive everywhere in a car; we do not.  You buy whatever’s on sale; we think more about it, even if that means we have to sacrifice something else to pay for it (and what we do with our money is none of your business).  You think medical science is stupid if it contradicts what you decide is right with no medical or scientific training; we think that medicine and science are best left to researchers, not to products, out-dated practices and presuppositions.  (Sure, perhaps I can be accused of not respecting the values of a person who is wrong, thinks he/she is right and then forces it on people. So be it.  I don’t value or respect it.)

The useless aspect of this angry post is that most of the people I’m talking about don’t read  blogs at all, and none of them actually reads this one.  (So don’t get your panties in a bunch.)  I’m talking to the wind.  Or,  maybe, to a person someone else knows, who is tempted to get bossy might find it on the web after they bossed a person and got cussed out?  So maybe it’ll help someone?  Or, at least, I think it bears saying somewhere.  There’s a lot written about how to deal with bossy people, but nothing I’ve seen directed to these bossy people themselves.

Do you know what?  It’s not Okay to do that.  We shouldn’t have to deal with it; you should stop it.

But since people won’t stop it, I have to echo what everyone else says.  Remember that you are the parent[s].  Your child is everything.  Your child means more than other people’s feelings.  Do what I don’t have the guts to do and tell people who tell you have to raise your kid to shut the hell up.

See part i for more fun!

Asshole things people do when you’re pregnant, part i.

Smother you with their drama.

Okay, so I’ll brag about being a good listener.  I have friends and family members (and a wife) who take advantage of this in a way that is beneficial for us all.  Some people need a good listener, and good listeners usually like to listen and to be helpful by doing so.  Then there are people who (insert sarcasm and raise volume) really take advantage of good listeners.

When the answer to, “How are you?” or, “How was your [period of time]?” or “Hi,” is a ten minute speech about what you had for dinner, what you’re thinking of having for lunch, what aches and pains you have today, what small worries that any adult should be able to deal with and other bullshit most people never even say outloud — when this is a litany without even a returned, “How are you?” I no longer have patience for  you.

You can fuck off.

Buy a journal.  Your mental/emotional health is less important to me than my incoming child — so much less that it makes me feel guilty and then mad for feeling guilty for giving a shit about people who are so self-absorbed that they steal time away from an expectant father who they are fully aware is completely busy, tired, stressed and could probably use a bit of a listener himself.  Frankly, like any other human being, I only have so much patience to go around, and you can’t have any more of it.

This isn’t even about personality “types.”  I am an introvert, and I am married to an extrovert.  We balance each other out.  What annoys me about “speechers” is not their extroversion but their self-centered bullshit.  Being an extrovert doesn’t mean you have to be selfish.  My wife is certainly not.  If anything, I’d expect introverts to be this self-absorbed.*

I know I could just hint, nudge some individuals away gently, but this is a faulty approach to two reasons.  First, I’m a sucker and a wimp.  Second, I like to think that I like to help people when I can.  While it’s easy to tell someone to fuck off online (especially when they don’t read your blog or even know you have one), it’s another matter in person.  Third, speechers don’t get hints!  I know people who will keep talking to you when your cell phone rings, even when you say, “It’s my wife,” and they know this wife is pregnant!  Geez.

That is all the bitching for today.  Stay tuned for everyone’s favorite asshole thing people do when you’re pregnant: tell you what to do!

*[Of course, while we're on the topic of "types," what's also annoying is an extrovert masquerading as an introvert, as if you can fool anyone.  "I'm an introvert who has to think everything outloud to other people," is an incorrect assessment of how you deal with things.  There's no shame to being an extrovert!]

Just realized something both happy and sad.

Two years ago, when my grandfather died, there became officially only two generations of my family, from which my last name comes: my father and my brothers.  Starting in a few weeks (or possibly even this week), there will, once again, be three, when Baby is born.

When I was born, there were four.  My great-grandfather (“Gramps”) was pretty awesome.

Baby loves music!


So, Baby is at that stage now where she can’t move around inside Mama that much because she’s huge. Still, she does her rolling and nudging, and sometimes you can see Mama’s belly lurching around. Even while she’s doing her, “Let me out! It’s crowded in here!” dance, she goes nuts for music.

If she is awake, she gets down to the music, whether she’s already moving or not.

As such, Mama and I have taken to playing duets for Baby: she on vocals and I on the mandolin. Some songs sound great this way:

“Breakfast at Tiffanys” – Deep Blue Something
“I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)” – Meatloaf
“Intervention,” “Wake Up” – The Arcade Fire
“Sweet Child O Mine,” “I Used to Love Her” – Guns N Roses
“Lost” – Coldplay
“Rio” – Duran Duran
“To Love Somebody” – The Bee Gees
“Snow ((Hey Oh)),” “Dani California” – Red Hot Chili Peppers

Baby seems to really like the hard-strumming stuff, like the outro to “Sweet Child O Mine.”

We bought a portable speaker with our tiny laptops this winter, which sits on Mama’s lap while she works. Aside from live music from Mama and Daddy, Baby has very specific musical preferences that I’m sure we will never ever forget about:

The Smiths
The Doves
Temper Trap
Arcade Fire
Pearl Jam
U2

A fortune teller told us that Baby will excel “with her mouth”: speaking, politics, singing, etc. Both Mama and her sister are talented singers, and I will brag slightly that my brothers and I each possess some music talent (I can’t sing though). I wonder if we might have a little singer on our hands? Or a drummer?! I imagine, in twelve year or so, plugging in my bass and jamming with my daughter. Maybe Mama on keyboard.

Wow.

A band: Johnny, Frankie and Charlie: The Stone Funk Trio.

Impending parenthood does strange things to you.


Mama discovered that she, in fact, can sew like a champ. She made two portable changing pads for Baby with Grandma a few weeks ago, then a freakin adorable kimono for Baby. I have to get pictures of them all.  Lots of bright colors, and cupcakes, even.

I, as I mentioned, discovered a work ethic I never knew I had — or, at least, that I haven’t experienced since prelims, comps or classes I especially liked as an undergrad.

I also have a nice slice of soda bread that Mama made in my backpack, for worktime munching.  Also after I paint again tonight, I’m sure.

I’m still alive.

Okay.  Defended the dissertation two weeks ago.  Long story.  I got myself so completely high on caffeine that my heart was beating 92 times a minute, sitting still.  Seriously; I checked twice. I don’t think I’ve ever been as nervous about anything in my entire life. At a hospital, car crash, bike crash, social event, you’re not sitting alone thinking all day before your 4:30 event. I probably should have been more social that day, but I had no patience for drama, which seems everywhere these days — even my own.  Anyway, I had all day to think of all the ways I’d screw it up, since I’m not only a terrible public speaker but also intimidated by the idea of a room full of philosophers versus me and me alone.

Went through the defense.  Committee suggested some clarifications, treatments, etc., including fixing my “tone,” which some considered “flippant.”  Upon revising it, I realized they were actually right about that.  Not a big deal.  Everyone has to make some changes after a defense, I’m told.  My director called me “Doctor.”  Some of the changes took me a while because I wanted to make sure they were right on the first try, and some took less because I already had the research.  No one asked any of the questions I thought they would, though.

Nonetheless, the most unpleasant thing about my entire PhD program was over.  But, with Baby on the way and the official electronic submission deadline looming, this meant that I was MIA for a week and half.  My life was:

Wake up.
Work at job.
Dissertation at lunch.
Work at job.
Go to market.
Make dinner.
Work on dissertation.
Bed.
Repeat, and, on weekend, replace job work with housework, laundry, a food drive, etc.
(Also insert people being so disrespectful as to demand my time, knowing full well what was going on.  I’m very generous with my time, I think, but I needed it this week for myself and my family.)

None of this was good for my sanity, though it’s been incredibly beneficial for my work ethic. As in, I have one now. I finished revising the dissertation and making all of the changes Saturday. Since then, I’ve been painting, caulking, cooking, shopping, cleaning and organizing in preparation for Baby.  It’s non-stop, and I haven’t been online much, save a little on Facebook.

Last night, I had to take apart my [cheap] caulking gun because I bent the innards. Damned spring shot me in the freakin eyeball which, as you can imagine, hurts like hell today. Doesn’t look as bad as it did yesterday, though.  Still, it calls to mind certain episodes of “The Simpsons.”

Now I’m working with my director to get it all final and done and gone.  It feels too good to be true, and it hope it works.  Because once Baby is born (any day now, literally), I don’t want to have to work on this ever again.

OMG, it’s only Tuesday.

What a week already!  Yesterday, we saw the OB early in the morning.  She said the same thing as two weeks ago: things look stable; maybe in two weeks, Mama can come off bedrest a little.  Good news.

Then we went to the bloodlab, where we spent about four hours.  It was hot, close, and you could feel the frustration from people over the waiting.  The nurses didn’t think Mama looked good.  So we got to wait behind a curtain after the first hour.  Before that, I finished Into the Wild.

We had lunch, which was heaven after we’d been fasting for the testing (I fasted, too, for sympathy).

Came home, did laundry, got an email from my dissertation directory asking for my bibliography.  Scrambled to get that put together and was up late going through all of my footnotes to make sure I didn’t forget anything.

Meetings and “official” stuff already all day today.

My blood sugar is all over the place from fighting the urge to give in to stress.  I’m so tired that I feel like throwing up, but I’m having trouble sleeping also.  I have something huge going on tomorrow (if all goes as planned) that I don’t want to jinx too much by talking about.

But soon, none of this will matter.  Baby will be here.

Yay, more blood tests!

So Mama didn’t pass the screening test for gestational diabetes.  So we have to go this week for the three-hour, multiple needle, fasting-required, version that really and conclusively (?) tests for gestational diabetes.  This is not quite as scary as when they hooked Mama up to monitors last month and when we thought we might have a very premature Baby on our hands.  But it’s still nerve-bending, and it’s unpleasant.  Mama has to fast and get several needles over the course of the day spent at the lab.  No fun.

I wish I could lend my arm, but the OB says that won’t work.